The Son He Couldn't Have
by HallucinatingDreams
Summary: SSnapeHPotter Paternal Relationship. He feels as if those eyes are an Avada Kedavra curse, because a piece of himself dies as he whispers the spell and hopes he’s made the right decision. He wasn’t meant to be a father. It wasn't meant to be this way.


**The Son He Couldn't Have**

**Disclaimer: **The plot is mine, the characters and settings are not.

**Summary: **He feels as if those bewildered green eyes are an Avada Kedavra curse, because a piece of him dies when he whispers the spell, hoping he's made the right decision. He wasn't meant to be a father. It wasn't meant to be this way.

**IXX**

He's pacing, striding from side to side as if he has somewhere important to go.

He doesn't.

Movement is required to achieve, to pursue happiness, to survive and to live. Even though there doesn't seem to be anything left worth living for, he keeps moving. The pacing is all that can tame his spirit, the weeping rage coursing through him.

Breaths of hot air float away from his parched lips in short bursts, struggling angrily, relentlessly against the coldness. Glass shards litter the slashed carpet, which is cracked with dots of crimson. Scorch marks on the mahogany paneling tell the story of the break-in.

When a tongue of cold wind reaches through the broken window, he shudders, something he hasn't done since she stepped into his life.

But she's gone now. With their son.

It almost seems appropriate that he shudders, now that she's gone. It almost seems appropriate that he won't ever see her again, because too many people have trampled through his life—mercilessly taking what they wanted, cruelly leaving everything else to decay. _Her_ departure, however, wasn't the same.

_"There's evidence that a struggle took place to abduct your wife and your son. We'll find them, sir."_

But they never did. The Dark Lord had been vanquished the same night as the attack on his own family, and with the whole kingdom in celebration, who would have remembered a dark, broken young man and his broken family?

Five days after the first, another Ministry official visited him.

_"Your wife's name has appeared on the Ministry's "Wizard Casualties" list. The magical list updates itself weekly, and there's never been a mistake. As for your infant, Demetrius, he may have been too young to be registered by the list. With Lady Cassiopeia passed on, there's nearly no chance that your son survived."_

_A pause, in which the stranger hands him a handkerchief sporting the official Ministry emblem, as if the man expects him to break down crying. Truth be told, he had been expecting this news. The families of Death Eaters--especially Death Eater traitors--do not vanish and return unharmed. With the confirmation from "Wizard Casualties," all that happens is the treacherous gleam of hope is quashed._

_"You have our condolences for your loss, Lord Snape, especially since the attacker picked the only weakness in the wards, and because you experience…this at such a time, when everyone else is rejoicing…"_

And so, here he is still, pacing ragged and unkempt, with cold, blank eyes and hunched shoulders. Once every while, he pauses to stare forlornly at the broken window, as if demanding an answer from the attacker of three weeks ago.

"Why?"

The word is spoken tonelessly, but there's so much more left unspoken, left to be guessed by the open air.

_Why wasn't I good enough? I gave Dumbledore information about the prophecy in exchange for protection over my family. I loved my family. Doesn't that make me just as noble and courageous as James Potter ever was?_

_So why did the Harry Potter survive, while my son died?_

Other than the howling wind, there is not reply. And he keeps pacing.

**XIX**

He's sitting so still, staring at the paper, he fears he'll never move again. Maybe he doesn't want to ever move again. Because he can't understand the words. He simply refuses to.

Chilly dungeon breezes waver through his chambers, fluttering the crinkled letter away. Even if the letter is burned to cinders, however, the seven-year-old message will be imprinted in his soul forever.

He stumbled upon the letter earlier this morning, its yellowed edges just barely peeking out one of his old journals. The letter had been written in elegant, flowing cursive letters, black and reassuring ink in a familiar pattern. He hadn't thought he would read that handwriting again, in all the rest of his days.

It was Cassiopeia's handwriting. A letter penned minutes before her death, arriving by owl at Snape Manor hours later--so fortunately timed. Caught in grief and panic, he had not read the letter when he received it, instead slipping it into his journal to read "later." The message had lain there untouched for seven years. How he wished he had read it immediately upon seeing it…

The tale the letter spun was elaborate, unbelievable, and so ironically coincidental.

Cassiopeia's attacker had been a common ransom hunter, hoping to earn a quick and easy couple hundred thousand galleons by kidnapping the newly-wed Lady Snape and the one-year-old Heir of Snape. After silencing, binding, and immobilizing both her and Demetrius, the ransom hunter had set out by broom to his lair. At some point during the flight, Cassiopeia's wedding ring slipped off her finger…

…landing in the concealed backyard of Godric's Hollow. A true Quidditch seeker, James Potter had at once noted the golden gleam in the sunlight, and had seen the telltale signs of a hidden passenger on the broom: the broom's tail had been pointing more downward than a solo rider's broom tail, and the broom had been flying much too low for a solo rider—not because the rider wished to fly conspicuously over a muggle-populated area, but because, with the extra weight, the broom couldn't manage a higher altitude. Being reckless (or "brave and valiant," as Cassiopeia had termed it), Potter had effectively apprehended the ransom hunter, cast _Petrificus Totalus _on the man, and then discovered Cassiopeia and Demetrius.

The end of the letter informed him to expect his wife and son a little later than usual. She and Lily had discovered the two had much in common, and Demetrius was quickly becoming friends with Potter's one-year-old son, Harold.

A quick series of spells proved the letter as written by Cassiopeia, on the evening of October 31st, 1981.

Now, he's left to contemplate the contents of the letter and its implications, while waves upon waves of guilt swamp him.

_Why hadn't he told her that the Potter family was in grave danger, that associating with them might extend the danger to the Snape family? Why hadn't he checked the wards once more before leaving for the Order meeting that night? Why hadn't he taken her along to the meeting, instead of insisting the traveling might be dangerous or discomfit Demetrius?_

It hurts to think that the event could easily have been prevented, with a few more seconds of thought, a few more seconds of time, a fateful night seven years ago. Perhaps, Cassiopeia, with her silky ebony tresses, melodious French voice, and brilliant emerald eyes, would be beside him, if he had made a different choice. Perhaps he would be teaching Demetrius—who would surely have had his parents' talents—potions, and Cassiopeia would be teaching their son Arithmancy.

Suddenly, another revelation hits him:

The bodies of the ransom hunter, Cassiopeia, and Demetrius were never found at the Potter residence, although the Dark Lord could have banished those corpses. Still, both Demetrius and the Potter boy had had eyes the identical shade of green. He remembered his shock, upon seeing Harold Potter, when he found himself looking into the green eyes of his son, in the face of James Potter's son. Both boys also had black hair, if he recalled correctly—Harold's hair was inherited from James Potter, Demetrius' hair was inherited from him.

The Dark Lord would never have bothered to distinguish between the two boys, only to kill anything and everything moving in the house. Dumbledore had never cast an identification charm on the infant Boy-Who-Lived, since no one had known that anyone besides the Potter family was at Godric's Hollow.

His heart skips a beat.

Could the Boy-Who-Lived be a Snape?

**XXI**

He's frozen in place before the boy, mesmerized by the child's features. Only this morning, he laid eyes on the lad for the first time since—depending upon whether he was a Potter or a Snape—years ago, and already, so much had changed during the day, and he had mauled over every action, every habit of the boy, trying to decide whether the boy seemed more "Potter" or "Snape." It was difficult to decipher, since Harry/Demetrius had been irrevocably altered from his "natural personality" by the terror tactics and abuse inflicted by the Dursley family.

The boy's eyelashes are long and dark, naturally curled at the tips. In his sleep, they fan softly against his high cheekbones, hiding piercing and bright green eyes. His skin is not pale, nor is the notorious Snape nose present, but this, Severus realizes, could easily be the result of Cassiopeia's olive skin tones and straight nose. The messiness of the hair, though, is of dubious origin. A maternal great-grandfather or great-grandmother?

All in all, the lad could easily pass for the spitting image of James Potter, with the eyes of Lily Evans. Once he began to truly analyze the boy's features, however, it quickly became apparent that they could be a—although highly unlikely, but still possible—combination of the distinctive traits of the Snape and Badeau familes.

He cast the spell this morning, which showed all the names that had been used in reference to the boy, in chronological order.

_Freak. Harold. The Boy-Who-Lived. Idiot. Harry James Potter. Boy…_

At the top of the list was the first name ever used: Demetrius Aleyixto Cephereus Eleaclitus Snape.

His son.

He scowls outwardly at the information, but inside, he feels fear. Indecision.

_"Mr. Snape, where are we going?" The boy's voice is soft and quiet, docile almost. _

_To a certain degree, it disgusts him, but he knows that Lily Evan's wretched relations are to blame. And yet, he can hear the spark of curiosity driving the boy to ask, the spark of defiance that couldn't be tamed._

_It's the Snape within him._

"_We're returning to Snape Manor."_

_A quick intake of breath, a suspenseful pause, and Severus can already feel Demetrius tensing for another question. He silently curses the famous Snape curiosity, all while he swells with pride. _

_His son. Demetrius. Curious and unafraid, despite the treatment he has received in the past years._

"_Why?"_

"_It's our home."_

_He knows the reply is brusque, much too sharp for an eight-year-old, which is why he can't stifle his surprise when the emerald eyes alight with shock, excitement…and happiness?_

"_Snape Manor is your home and…and _mine_, too?"_

So much hope. So much joy.

"_Yes. Someone made a mistake a long time ago. You are not Harry James Potter, but my son, Demetrius Aleyixto Cephereus Eleaclitus Snape."_

So many expectations and dreams, almost tangible emotions in those green, Cassiopeia-like eyes…

"_Demetrius. That's a wicked name! I can't believe we're going…home. Home. That sounds kind of strange to me. And Father…can I call you 'Father'?"_

…so many expectations and dreams that he, Severus Tobias Snape—a broken, lifeless and bitter man, could never fulfill.

Gently, he leans over his son's sleeping form and prods the boy awake. His son.

"Father?"

He flinches under the sleepy green gaze, still swirling with hope and admiration. He flinches again when his son's happiness falters in reaction to the first flinch.

"Father, are you alright?"

In the pause before he answers, a thousand thoughts flash through his mind.

_If only he had remained at the Manor that fateful last of October…if only he hadn't become a Death Eater in the first place…if only he had met Cassiopeia sooner…_

_If only he had been someone else._

"I love you, my son."

_If only there was another way…_

"I'm sorry, Demetrius."

He levels his wand at his bewildered and frightened son, staring into the Avada Kedavra eyes.

_He can't meet those expectations, yet can't bear to disappoint._

He feels as if those eyes are an Avada Kedavra curse, because he feels one of the last pieces of himself die as he whispers the spell and hopes he's made the right decision.

_He wasn't meant to be a father._

"Obliviate."

_It wasn't meant to be this way._

**IXX**

**If you've read it and have anything you'd like to say, please review.**

Sadly, this site has...difficulties catering to my spacing needs, otherwise the "layout" of this story would have been much more interesting and impacting. Also, I apologize for any spelling and grammar mistakes you may find (and, if you'd like, point out any mistakes I made); I toyed quite a bit with the verb tenses in this one. It almost gave me a headache.

Happy 2008!


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